


Decay

by Annibellee



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Death, Illness, M/M, deaaaaaath, for real though, hey guys this is gonna hurt your heart, i can't really tell if this is unrequited or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5549456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annibellee/pseuds/Annibellee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've been numb for a while now(you've been sick for a while now). This may be it. </p><p>You miss him, so, why not reach out? (When did you get so lonely?)</p><p>This could be (it is your breath is sneaking out the window you can feel it) your last chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decay

They all would say you were so brave, like you had any choice. It's not like you want to stare death in the face. You don't choose this. You are anything but brave. You are submissive, you bow your head to your fate. You accept that you're breaking down. Or growing. You don't know anymore. 

The mirror says that you're shrinking. Your face has sunken in, your eyes seem like they have fallen into canyons. You see the cheekbones now that you haven't had since seventh grade, your toothpick stage. You look spindly and you think you could become a daddy longleg with how thin your limbs are. You could probably play your spine like a xylophone and your ribs are so prominent you can count most of them. 

The ex rays say you're growing. Rainbows of cells keep appearing on screens, multiplying, taunting you that they'll last longer than you. They'll win the race. They're taking you over. They keep you up at night, faintly cackling, rubbing in that they're winning the battle. You can't focus on what's ahead, your mind is too clouded now, and honestly you're afraid to. 

Day in and day out is the routine of preparation, waking up and going through your meaningless and uneventful day of being ailed, going to sleep and fearing that you won't wake up again to repeat it. 

Sometimes you don't sleep, when you feel worse than usual. People tell you that it's good for you to sleep, but you'll be _damned_ if you die in your sleep. 

Sometimes you do sleep, when you feel worse than usual. People tell you that it's good for you to sleep, and _maybe_ you kind of want to die in your sleep.

You know you'll slip away like sand through fingers, and that you'll mean nothing to the universe. Everything you've ever done has just been for someone to scratch into a eulogy. People look at you with the same eyes, pained, pitying, perplexed, 

petrified.

Sometimes you can feel the air in your lungs being sucked out like the world is a vacuum. You know it isn't really like that at all, as you watch those around you inhale with such normalcy, such disregard for something that you have to put real effort into now. It's a slow in and out, rise and fall of your hollow chest. God, you are so _empty_.

Then one day you get a rush of something you never think you'll have time to explain. The air is less thick and you know this is it. 

You wonder if he'll answer the phone, as your fingers sluggishly tap your screen with numbers you thought you had forgotten long ago _(numbers were always his thing)_. You almost don't want him to, because you are so, so _ugly_ , and you never want to be seen this way. But you know him. You know he will drop everything because that's who he is, and he will see you. Then you remember why you want him, because he will come and he will see you but he will make sure that you feel like he doesn't. He will waltz right in and crack a joke and your banter will go on for hours.

He picks up the phone with, of course, some witty quip you don't care to store in your memory reserves. You strain your voice and by the end of the phone call you have no breath left from pretending to be what you aren't. 

Fine.

But he said he would come, immediately after you told him. You heard him strain his voice, too. He was pretending, too. 

He's there faster than you thought he would be for someone as famous as he was. You figured he'd be busy if he was important and you weakly poke fun at him about it. He snorts and says you've fucked up his whole month, and he brought his secretary with him so he could be in the best place possible to have an aneurysm. 

He does a good job at playing dumb for a while, but you can see his hands shake. You see his fingers drum on the side of your bed, and you know it is taking so much of him right now to see you this way. You almost feel bad for not disappearing without a trace. When your breathing takes a steep decline, and he starts freaking out, you tell him that in a wheeze. Everything is silent except your labored breathing and your stupid machines. The nurse leaves as soon as your breathing is relatively normal for you.

That breaks him. He rests his head in his arms, on your bed, letting out a small curse into the air. Then he shoots back up and yells, finally, cursing much louder. He gets upset, angry even, and he shouts at you for not telling him earlier. He screams at you for trying to do it alone, for even thinking of dying alone. 

This isn't what you planned, you thought he would be able to handle this and you tell him. He looks at you, incredulous, then starts screaming again about how you called the wrong person if you were looking for someone who didn't care enough to be upset, who didn't care enough to hate that you let yourself rot in solitude. If you wanted laughs and cheering up, he claims, you should have called a clown.

And yet, he doesn't leave. He takes off his sunglasses and he cries. After looking around and realizing that he had stood up at some point he crashes back into the uncomfortable hospital chair.

You've seen him yell twelve _(you counted but it felt wrong)_ times while you've known him, but never have you seen him cry. 

He screams that he fucking loved you, he loved you to the high heavens. He always had and he always will but he just wished you loved yourself. You tell him you do but he just shakes his head at you through all of your protests.

If you loved yourself, he says, you would have called someone last year. Even if it wasn't him, just someone, because if you love someone you believe they never deserve to be alone and lonely.

You wish you could say you weren't, that you were fine and unphased. But you look into his eyes and you are so fucking lonely.

You tell him. 

He says you aren't alone now.

He hopes he can fill in the lonely holes in your walls, like he was repairing a house where someone had lots of posters. 

He takes your breath away, but you know it's the bad way now. Because of his words and not, all at once.

You tell him you don't feel so lonely and it makes it harder to breathe, and you're so scared you're _so fucking afraid_ , you're so fucking tired, _so fucking exhausted._ It's a mantra of spilling yourself and you're seeping out of your skin, your breath is fleeting. His hand is very warm on yours.

You can't tell him over the screaming machines, the dull pain in your body that you really register now, or over his yelling _(thirteen)_. He looks into your eyes like he's sea sick and you shake your head at him.

You try so hard to tell him you love him, you really do.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sad and I've actually been working on this for a really long time and so I sorta just busted out the second half of this tonight.. er.. morning..
> 
> Have I mentioned I can't sleep and it's 4:51 am?


End file.
